


it doesn't mean anything

by andheaventoo



Series: MMoM Drabbles [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Masturbation, POV Harry Potter, Potions, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 20:57:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18699016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andheaventoo/pseuds/andheaventoo
Summary: Harry finds it difficult to concentrate in Potions."Harry watched as Malfoy's long fingers curled around the knife, chopping in deft strokes with a speed and dexterity that made Harry's own fingers tingle just from watching."





	it doesn't mean anything

Harry couldn't concentrate in Potions. It was the dimness of the dungeon classroom, the dullness of the subject matter, and the somnolent post-lunchtime hour, yes. But it was also Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy was infuriatingly adept at Potions. This had always been true. But since the war, since being formally (and very publicly) pardoned and permitted to return to Hogwarts to complete his education on a parole basis, Malfoy had become distinctly more subdued. And in the absence the obnoxious pleas for attention that had gotten under Harry's skin too many times to count, Malfoy's withdrawn composure only served to draw Harry's attention to the actual details of him instead of the general annoyance of him.

Like, today. Slughorn had them making a Shrinking Solution. Harry had heated the sliced caterpillars, added in the peeled Shrivelfig, and was waiting for the solution to simmer until it turned purple. Malfoy, working with confident efficiency, had already added the rat spleen and was now mincing his daisy roots. Harry watched as Malfoy's long fingers curled around the knife, chopping in deft strokes with a speed and dexterity that made Harry's own fingers tingle just from watching. It was only slicing up flower stems, for Merlin's sake, but Mafloy's brisk movements displayed such casual competency that Harry couldn't help but be impressed, continually sneaking glances over to Malfoy's table.

Malfoy didn't raise his hand to answer questions anymore, but Harry saw how he was always two steps ahead of whatever instructions or guidance Slughorn was giving the class. Half-listening to Slughorn, Harry would watch Malfoy scribble notes in the margins of his textbook, mouthing answers to himself without looking up from his work. It always made Harry feel funny, a twist of something like envy but far softer, more reverent, churning in his gut. Mostly, he kept this feeling locked tight in the dark depths of his belly.

And, his hair. Malfoy had abandoned the long, slicked-back style that had been his signature style—about which, Harry had hypotheses that involved Malfoy no longer wanting to emulate his father's slick ponytail, nor draw a visual link that would remind people of how close he had been to following his father's footsteps all the way to Azkaban. Malfoy now wore his hair close-cropped, almost buzzed. The cut accentuated his sharp features, the fine bones of his face and high slope of his cheekbones. It had grown out a little since the school year started, and the heat from his cauldron was causing the fine hairs at the nape of his neck to curl. A sheen of perspiration shimmered on his pale skin.

Harry shifted in his seat, tried to return his attention to his now gurgling cauldron—well past a low simmer, that would cost him—to focus his eyes on the next step in his Potions book. The letters seemed blurry. He blamed the hot fumes that were raising a sweat on his forehead. He wiped at it with the back of his hand, pushing Malfoy's thin, nimble fingers from his mind.

Twenty minutes later, it was over. They transferred a ladle-full of their Solutions to phials and deposited their samples at Slughorn's desk. Harry approached the desk as Malfoy was handing over his sample. Slughorn took it from him, holding it up to catch the wan light filtering through the tiny dungeon windows.

"Excellent work, Mr. Malfoy," Slughorn said. "A perfect emerald green hue. I have no doubt this could shrink a hippogriff to the size of a newborn kneazle."

Instinctively, Harry waited for the haughty remark. For Malfoy to turn around and deplore Harry's own muddy green sample, clearly burned and useless. No forthcoming comment came. Harry stared at the back of Malfoy's neck and saw a faint blush creeping up toward his hairline. Malfoy's hair was so blonde, Harry imagined it turning pink when Malfoy became fully flushed, from embarrassment or anger or —

"Thank you, professor." Malfoy inclined his head toward Slughorn, then excused himself and returned to his desk, where he quickly packed up his bag and departed. Harry ignored a restlessness in his feet that compelled him to follow. Those days were behind him.

Harry crossed paths with Hermione and Ron outside the Great Hall. 

"We thought we'd go down to the lake," Hermione greeted him. "Enjoy the weather while it lasts."

"Seamus brought a football from home," said Ron excitedly. "He's going to teach us how to play."

"Um," stalled Harry, who was still feeling fidgety after his time in the dungeons. "I'm feeling a bit tired. Think I'll just run upstairs for a quick nap before dinner."

Hermione's brows knit, but she nodded. "See you later, then."

As they walked away, Ron swung an arm around her shoulders and tugged her into his side.

On his way back to the eighth year tower, Harry stopped in the bathroom to splash his face with cold water. He closed his eyes and leaned over the sink. He saw a flush fanning over a pale chest, up a long, elegant neck toward — he shook his head to dispel the image before it could reach its destination. It was replaced by thin fingers, curling around — 

Harry groaned, frustrated. The semi he'd been ignoring since Potions was swelling with the force of the blood pumping through his body. Harry turned and entered a stall, closing the door roughly behind him and tossing a locking charm toward the door to the bathroom. He propped one hand against the wall, standing over the toilet, and used the other hand to push his robes open and tug his zipper down. His fingers brushed against his cock, stiff against the seam of his boxers, and he exhaled sharply, "Fuck."

He gave in, pulled his cock out and gave it couple quick strokes. He rubbed the pad of his thumb across the head, gathering the pre-cum there and slicking it down the shaft. Letting go briefly, he raised his hand to his mouth and gave it a few licks. His lube was by his bedside (where normal sexual activity belonged) so spit would have to do. He gripped himself at the base and gave a firm squeeze before sliding up to the tip and settling into a rhythm.

As he stroked himself, he kept his mind carefully blank, thinking of nothing but the chafe of his calloused palm against the sensitive skin of his cock, of the pleasure spreading beneath his skin, tingling and pulling his muscles taught, his heart beating hard and fast in his chest. After all, it was only a physical urge, a necessary release after a too-long afternoon cooped up in the dungeons. It didn't mean anything about anything.

His hand was moving faster now, his balls tightening on the precipice of his orgasm. An image flashed behind his eyes of sharp cheekbones blotched pink, soft lips gaping open, eyes closed — 

The tension released, come spilling over onto his hand, and Harry's mind finally went completely, blessedly blank.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to the Drarry fandom so if you like this, please come say hi on [tumblr](https://and-heaventoo.tumblr.com/)!


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